It was a cloudy morning. It had been raining on the day before, and the forest was all humid and wet, slippery to the touch and the feet. As I gazed through the woods, I did not felt safe, and yet something whispered inside me, I was at home.
My guitar is made of wood, maybe cedar, maybe mahogany, I dont know. I was raised in the city. But as I looked at those old, nameless, giant trees around... a feeling of strange familiarity with them surprised me. As I, being able to play the guitar, somehow could play the trees as well.
It seemed preposterous to me (and, I must say, I'm inclined to visions of grandiosity myself). But as I got home, in the same day, by the afternoon, I received an email of a friend. He was writing about philosophy and poetry and found a quote by the great romantic poet, Novalis (1772-1801). He told me that it struck him as something I would like to know. As the quote follows:
All tones that nature brings forth
are raw and spiritless;
Often only to the musical soul does the sound of the forest—
the piping of the wind,
the song of the nightingale,
the plashing of the brooks